


The Yoke of Inauspicious Stars

by littlehollyleaf



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Episode Related, Gen, Heavy Angst, I'm Sorry, M/M, ed/lee is in the past here, hints at possible deeper feelings in Ed, nygmobblepot is as in canon - explicitly one-sided
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2019-05-09 18:13:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14721108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlehollyleaf/pseuds/littlehollyleaf
Summary: 4.22 missing scene. Oswald discovers Ed and Lee's bodies in the Narrows.





	The Yoke of Inauspicious Stars

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet, Act 5, Scene 3, line 118-121: 
> 
>  
> 
> _"Oh, here_  
>  _Will I set up my everlasting rest,_  
>  _And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars_  
>  _From this world-wearied flesh."_
> 
>  
> 
> Like most of my Gotham creations, this fic was inspired by [Daisiestdaisy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doyle/pseuds/Daisiestdaisy)  
> Specifically her amazing Season 5 speculative fic [What We Lose](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14707065) <3

 

It never ceases to amaze Oswald how life seems to relish finding new ways to inflict pain upon him, just when he'd thought himself numb to all possible hurt.

Less than two hours ago he'd killed a friend and endured it with minimal suffering. He remembers how proud he'd been of his strength. How hardened and powerful he believed he'd made himself to be able to withstand the loss.

Now here he stands, silent and stricken, all his hard-won power stripped away as though it never were by an agony so intense he can hardly breathe beneath the weight of it.

And it's absurd. This is nothing he hasn't imagined himself.

Ed bloody and pale and still.

Oswald had spent weeks, _months_ , fantasising the man's demise, dreaming of how he'd make Ed pay for his crimes – for the betrayal Oswald had suffered at Ed’s hands, the mockery, the humiliation.

But that was fantasy. In the end, Oswald had spared him. Every time he'd spared him. And of course he'd given his reasons – making Ed a living trophy was a more powerful statement, letting him live with his ice-inflicted brain damage was the greater revenge – but faced with the sordid reality of Ed's corpse he sees the truth of it.

Because Ed is no Tabitha Galavan. His has never been an inevitable death to be improved on by delayed gratification.

No, Oswald hadn't been delaying Ed's demise, he'd been avoiding it.

Because a part of him had known, even at the peak of his hatred, even before their reconciliation after his latest stint in Arkham, that a dead Edward Nygma was not what he wanted. That a dead Edward Nygma was going to _hurt_ more than heal.

A shock of breaking glass and angry shouting from outside restores Oswald's awareness - Jeremiah's bombs, the city in turmoil. Time is precious right now, the balance of power in Gotham for the foreseeable future will be determined by the alliances and territories claimed tonight. If Oswald hopes to be a ruling power in the new state of play he can't linger here.

The Narrows has always been the most lawless part of Gotham and if there is one thing its scrappy, in-fighting population is united on it's their hatred of him.

Failing to address this, to allocate resources to winning them over, was a serious miscalculation, he’d realised in hindsight. But there was no point dwelling on failure. What’s done is done and so forth. Instead, he'd seen at once that his only chance at peace with this part of the city was to broker a deal with their Queen and – ugh – _her_ Riddler. Because unless Oswald takes them by force the Narrows will never submit to his rule and, for now at least, he lacks the manpower for such an endeavour.

Hence his arrival and discovery of the grisly tableaux before him.

A tableaux that makes staying here both dangerous and futile.

Any chance he had at allying with this part of the city died with the fools at his feet. He has no recourse but to leave the slums to their own devices and hope that whatever rises up here once the dust has settled isn’t too great a threat.

It's time for him to do what he always does. Time for him to push through the pain and climb upwards to a new place of power.

This agony, too, is survivable. No matter how debilitating it may feel at the moment.

Move, Oswald tells himself. Just move.

But his eyes remain on Ed's sprawled out body, flicking like a moth to a flame over the tidy wound in his abdomen Ed had tried in vain to seal, sticky smears of blood oozing between his fingers. Oswald has seen enough fatal wounds in his life to know this one was small but precise. Surgical. Clearly the work of a medical professional.

Idiot, Oswald thinks as his gaze drifts back to Ed's face. I told you. I told you she was using you.

Ed’s lips are pursed and as Oswald steps closer he sees tight lines beneath the other man's closed lids through the murky lenses of his glasses. If you ignore the wound and sickly pallor you could almost believe Ed was merely in the throes of a bad dream.

Almost.

Oswald knows better. Knows that the expression means Ed had died in pain.

Edward Nygma, The Riddler, Oswald's sometime enemy but mostly friend and above all else the man he still loves with endless, aching passion, had died in pain, betrayed by the woman he'd so foolishly given his trust and his heart. In pain and, ultimately, despite Lee's presence just a few short paces away, alone.

This shouldn't matter. Oswald's personal loss is keen enough, why should he care for Ed's sake as well? The man made his own bed. If it turned out to be a lonely coffin, well, that's his own fault.

And yet, as Oswald pushes himself up the dais, passed the desk Lee's rigid form lays crumpled against, and slowly drops to his knees beside his old friend, he knows it does matter.

He remembers Ed of old. The Ed who'd so cunningly manipulated Jim Gordon into being arrested. The Ed who'd correctly calculated Oswald's rise to Mayor required no criminal influence and who had managed both public and criminal perception of Oswald during his political reign with masterful ease. Even the Ed who'd tormented him, bested him and fought against him.

When not being stymied by mad obsessions, Ed is a genius.

Was a genius.

Of this Oswald is certain.

There is a great man Edward Nygma could have, _should have_ , been. A man he was so close to becoming.

That he should be cut down like this, be it Ed's own fault or not, feels ignoble. Feels like a waste.

The hand Oswald reaches out doesn’t shake. A small victory.

“My dear Riddler,” he mutters under his breath as he presses the back of his gloved fingers to Ed’s lifeless cheek. “Goodbye.”

He only chokes a little over the farewell. Then he takes a breath and steadies himself against the pole of his cane kept upright in his other hand.

One more look. One more heartbeat. One more indulgence of his grief. Then he’ll stand and walk away. Leave Edward Nygma behind him once and for all.

Obviously this is the moment a shallow breath rattles down Ed’s throat and he opens his eyes.

Oswald is too astounded by this evidence of life to do anything but jerk back with a gasp, both hands hovering, confused, in the air, leaving his cane to clatter to the ground.

He’d been so sure – but then – the shock, the pain – he could easily have missed the subtle rise and fall of Ed’s chest. Should have checked for a pulse. This is Gotham. _Always_ check for a pulse.

While Oswald wrestles with the wild clamour of his heart, struggling to adjust to this new development, Ed’s unfocused eyes start to roam. They circle the ceiling and move down, catching on Oswald’s face.

“O – Oswald?” he croaks. He rolls his head so he can see Oswald better. The movement is slow and weak.

Oswald’s heart jumps to his throat and he can’t respond. Not dead, but close. Of course. Of course. This is his curse. Payment for his sins. Doomed forever not just to lose those he loves, but to witness it too.

Ed’s face clouds with deeper, darker lines in the silence.

“Why –?” he starts then cuts himself off with a sharp gulp of air, eyes popping wide. “No. No of course…” He sucks in a couple more breaths and labours on. “It has… to be you…”

“Ed,” Oswald breathes, finding his voice at last. He wants to tell Ed to hush, to be still and save his strength, because every desperate word is just ushering him that much closer to the end. But Ed doesn’t stop and Oswald can’t bear the thought of their last moments being spent in conflict.

“You… were right,” Ed tells him, though his gaze keeps slipping away, impossible for Oswald to hold. “There is no Edward Nygma… without The Penguin.”

Oswald frowns. Did he say that? He can’t recall. Perhaps, their first time at the docks, he’d expressed a similar sentiment.

“But…” Ed goes on. “There is no Riddler without… without Ed Nygma, either.”

The effort of speaking must be too much for Ed’s broken body because he starts to cough, flecks of blood dribbling from his mouth and staining his lips. But just as Oswald dares to reach down, thinking to hold him still, the fit passes.

When Ed tilts his head and lifts his eyes his gaze seems a little clearer. Tired, but focused on Oswald this time at least.

“You see?” he pants, wet red lips curving, exposing red splattered teeth. A grotesque parody of a smile. “I solved it. The riddle.” His eyes shine, feverish with mad, imagined triumph and Oswald feels his own eyes grow hot and wet to match. “Didn’t I?” The smile starts to dip. “Didn’t I?”

What else can Oswald do but swallow back the burning lump in his throat and force an answer?

“Yes,” he says, voice tight from the sob he’s denying. “Yes, you did.”

Ed’s whole body relaxes, lines on his face easing away as he readies to face his end in peace. A peace Oswald had given him. That _only_ Oswald could have given him, it seems.

How appropriately excruciating that Oswald should learn how much he meant to Ed just as he’s about to lose him forever.

The thought frees some of the tears pooling at the corners of his eyes and fills him with a wild need to feel, to _know_ , a final, living piece of Ed while he still has the chance.

Oswald scrabbles at the button of his right glove, tearing the fabric off with his teeth when his fingers prove too slow. Then he’s resting his bare palm against Ed’s brow, treasuring the last drop of heat in the clammy skin as he smoothes away loose strands of hair and strokes down to cup the side of Ed’s face.

He hopes to add to Ed’s calm with the gesture, so is horrified to watch Ed frown again at his touch. But before he can react Ed has mustered what must surely be the last of his strength to lift the arm at his side and clamp his hand over Oswald’s own.

Ed’s eyes blink back into focus and fix on Oswald with new intensity.

“ _Oswald_ ,” he says, like he’s seeing Oswald for the first time. “You’re here.”

A lapse in memory perhaps?

“Yes,” Oswald nods, curling his hand about the weak tips of Ed’s fingers. “Yes Ed, I’m here. I’m still here.”

“Oh,” Ed breathes, confusion lingering a moment, then melting into a full ear-to-ear smile. No wildness or triumph this time, just warmth. “I’m glad,” he goes on, prompting a similarly large, albeit more watery, smile from Oswald in return. “Will you… will you stay with me? I don’t… don’t want to be alone…”

Oswald is nodding, over and over, before Ed has finished.

“I promise,” he says, pressing Ed’s knuckles to his lips.

They fall into silence then, save for the slowing rattle of Ed’s breath and the thrum of blood in Oswald’s ears. But Ed’s eyes and the weak but persistent squeeze of his fingers speak louder than any of his words or riddles ever have. I want you, they say. I need you. 

It’s exactly the intimacy Oswald has always craved between them. Their desires finally aligned.

Somewhere a door opens and running footsteps explode into the room.

“Boss,” someone mutters.

“Not now,” Oswald growls, eyes still on Ed. Determined to stay there, to be with him until the end.

More footsteps join the first. A set breaks away and stomps up the dais to Ed’s other side.

“But Boss, the crowd outside is getting out of control, we gotta –”

Without even glancing at the speaker Oswald slips his gloved hand into his jacket and retrieves the pistol he’d used on Tabitha and Butch.

Sadly he does need to flick his eyes up to aim, but he squeezes Ed’s hand as he does, hoping Ed understands the meaning, that Oswald plans to keep his promise and get back to him soon.

He doesn’t try anything fancy. As soon as he has the guy’s chest in sight he points and shoots.

“I said not now!” he snaps as the man stumbles to the ground. That should serve as warning enough to any others thinking to distract him.

But when Oswald brings his eyes back Ed’s are no longer waiting for him. Instead he’s staring beyond Oswald. Unfocused. Unblinking.

“Ed?” Oswald tries. He knows it’s pointless, but panic makes him call a couple more times anyway. “Ed? _Ed?_ ”

He relaxes his hold on Ed’s fingers and Ed’s hand slips away like the deadweight it is. Truly lifeless this time. Finally gone.

And he’d missed it.

Thanks to some disposable thug he’d broken his promise and left Ed to die alone after all. Left himself without that final moment of closure.

He blanks out for a second, everything blurring into white hot pain.

No. No. No.

Then he blinks and the world returns.

_No._

This, all of it, is _unacceptable_.

He, Oswald Cobblepot, The Penguin, The King of Gotham, _will not allow it_.

Very calmly and without rushing, Oswald retrieves his glove and buttons it back on, picks up his cane and pulls to his feet. No one behind him says a word as he does and when he finally turns he finds the small gang of five waiting, feet shuffling in nervous silence.

They’re nobodies, all of them, like the mook bleeding out behind him. Just a bunch of petty crooks he and Butch had picked up off the street over the last few weeks. A small selection of the meagre force he’d managed to cobble together in the wake of Sofia’s decimation of his kingdom, the rest currently scattered out across the city with instructions to find a suitable place to requisition as Oswald’s new HQ.

This makes them all but useless for any serious schemes – they just don’t have the brains for it. But it does make them, for now, more likely to stay loyal. Grunts like them need a leader. Still, watching their leader execute one of their peers has the potential to spook even the most idiotic and desperate of underlings. Best address that now.

“Anyone who works for me is to obey my instructions _without question_ ,” he bellows down at the group. “If you can’t do that I suggest you leave now and try your luck on the streets because believe me, not all punishments for disobedience will be as merciful as I was with your friend here!”

He waves a hand behind him towards the fallen thug, stares hard at the rest and waits.

The men glance behind Oswald at their dead fellow, shoot further questioning glances at each other, spend a few more seconds listening to the sporadic gunshots and shouting from outside the building, then they all nod their heads, fix their feet in place and stay put.

“Good,” Oswald nods. “Now, you and you –” He points to two of the men nearest the dais. “I need you to deliver this man –” He points to Ed. “– to Professor Hugo Strange at the former Falcone residence and tell him to fix him, understand?”

One of the men frowns.

“Fix him?” he repeats. “But isn’t he –?”

Oswald glares and the man withers.

“Yes sir!” he nods and he and his new partner jump up and over to Ed without another word.

“Be _careful_ with him,” Oswald snaps over his shoulder as he clambers down to join the others.

“Yes Boss,” the other man answers as he steps over Ed’s legs.

Oswald watches, critical, as the men crouch either side of Ed, one of them lifting an arm, another rolling Ed onto his side. Testing his weight. He wishes he could stay with them, make sure they transport Ed safely, but there isn’t time. He needs to focus on claiming his patch of the city.

No use having Strange save Ed’s life if Oswald isn’t alive to appreciate it.

Because that’s what’s going to happen. Strange _will save him_. Oswald refuses to accept otherwise. Strange has brought others back. He can bring back Ed.

And if he fails –

No, he won’t fail. Oswald won’t allow him to fail.

He can’t allow him to fail.

Pushing through the pain is all well and good. But there are limits. There is some pain, Oswald understands now, that can only be survived by knowing it will end.

So this time, he’s going to end it.

Ed may have died alone, but Oswald is going to make damn sure he doesn’t wake up that way.

“What about the girl?” one of the men asks, shaking Oswald from his maudlin thoughts.

The question buzzes through him like white noise and Oswald bats at the air with a hand to dismiss it.

“Leave her.”

More glass shatters outside followed by a whoosh that sounds suspiciously like an explosion. Lights flicker through the windows. Then screaming.

“Wait,” Oswald says and the men beside Ed stop and stare at him expectantly.

The rest of Gotham might carve itself into a new order tonight, but here in the Narrows the violence outside is likely only the beginning of a much wider, sprawling, leaderless chaos.

Unless –

“No. Take her too,” Oswald amends. “Tell Strange to fix them both.”

Why not? Since he’s putting Strange to work anyway.

 


End file.
